


December 1st, In Which John Discovers Something About Himself

by Thette



Series: A December Tale [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Masturbation, Post-Season/Series 01 AU, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:17:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thette/pseuds/Thette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets excited by chasing criminals across London. In many ways. </p>
<p>The first in a series of loosely connected stories about December 2010, written between series 1 and 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	December 1st, In Which John Discovers Something About Himself

**Author's Note:**

> Betas: awahlbom, naye, melaszka, tehomet. They all made this a much better story, and any remaining mistakes are all mine. Originally posted [here](http://rosemaryfic.livejournal.com/7271.html) December 1st 2010.

  
"No, no, there's really no need for the candle, Angelo." John sighed at the retreating back of the restaurant owner. A lost cause, but he still felt the need to object.  
  
"If it bothers you so much that people mistake us for a couple, you should stop thinking about me in sexual situations," Sherlock said calmly over his lasagne. John sputtered and coughed, risotto stuck in his throat. Sherlock waited impatiently, fingers drumming against the table, until he got his breath back before continuing. "We've finished a case, which means that after giggling, eating and perhaps watching some crap telly with me, you will go to bed and masturbate before sleeping. You always do to wind down. Since you never ring or visit your various female acquaintances, it's not just sexual release you're looking for. It's the danger that excites you, the case you think about, and hence you think about me in sexual situations."  
  
"Shut up." John hid his blush in his hands. "How can you know...? Don't tell me you can hear..."  
  
"I don't need to hear you masturbate to know you're doing it. I recognise your unfocused post-ejaculative smile, and I know from your lack of singing in the shower that you're not having sex with a woman. You're also twice as likely to touch me the morning after a case." John didn't need to look up to know that Sherlock was waiting for a comment on his brilliant deduction. He could hear the smug smile in his voice. Damn this. Damn this life with an all-seeing sociopath! He slammed his palm on the table and left without turning his head or saying another word.  
  


***

  
  
The cold December evening closed in around him as he walked aimlessly along the streets of London. No matter how long he'd known Sherlock, he could still get under his skin and infuriate him like nobody else. The bastard, he thought, and then hastily corrected himself. No need to slander Mummy Holmes, even in his thoughts. The bloody wanker. No, that was a bit too close for comfort. His lips thinned. Sherlock bloody Holmes had infiltrated his thoughts, he couldn't even get abusive without being precise in his word choice. He turned the collar up against the wind, and as always when he did that, he remembered Jennifer Wilson's dead body.  
  
A left turn here, and he’d be walking straight to Sarah's place. She'd let him sleep on her couch, but she had told him firmly several months ago she wasn't interested in hearing any more about Sherlock. Their failed relationship had turned into quite a comfortable friendship, a breath of normality in his crazy life. He walked straight on. Beatrice would be happy to see him, but she hadn't yet met his flatmate, and after ruining several promising relationships by talking about that madman, he couldn't bring himself to ring her. His feet had chosen a way home all by themselves. Because yes, 221B was his home, even when he felt like an intruder. The small and neat upstairs bedroom, filled with his textbooks and his clothes. The sitting room downstairs, where he had to make space for himself by moving Sherlock's things. Damn!  
  
John shut the door silently. Sherlock was sprawled across the sofa, as usual. Not a chance of slipping upstairs without a fuss, then. He sat down hard in his armchair. Sherlock didn’t acknowledge his existence. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't try to embarrass me in public."  
  
"It was a perfectly logical continuation of the conversation. You would have found it even more awkward if I had said anything without you mentioning the way people keep insinuating we're a couple. Would you really have preferred if we talked about it after Mrs Hudson or Sally made one of their comments? Or after your sister tried prying into our lives again?"  
  
"Argh! No! Sherlock, can't you please understand that some things are better left private?" The raised eyebrow was answer enough. "I don't want you to know when I masturbate, and if you do, I don't want you to talk about it."  
  
"Is this another of those social conventions you care so much about?"  
  
"If I cared about social conventions, I wouldn't be living with you. And by the way, what makes you think I think about you when I do it?"  
  
The smirk turned into a feline smile. "Go on, tell me that you never have. Deny it, and I'll never mention it again."  
  
John threw the faded Union Jack pillow in Sherlock’s face and stomped up to his room, slamming the door after him.  
  


***

  
  
Muttering angrily, John took his jumper and trousers off, folded them properly, and placed them on the chair. Shirt and socks in the laundry basket, bedspread folded back, teeth brushed, pyjamas on. He enjoyed keeping the small things in order when the rest of his life was a roaring chaos. There was absolutely no need for intrusive sexual comments in a friendship that worked so well without them. Sighing, he lay down on the bed and drew the sheets over himself. He could sleep without wanking. Determined, he closed his eyes.  
  
Heart beating rapidly. Eyes closed, he couldn't stop mentally replaying it. Chasing the killer across a main road, dodging cars, hearing their brakes squeal. A hand to his throat, kicking his attacker in the nads. His breath coming in shallow puffs. He turned over, but the memories kept flooding his mind. The flash of a leather jacket vanishing around a corner, thuds of three pairs of feet. Every nerve ending in his body was firing. This wasn't working at all. He groaned and opened his eyes, green flashes telling him he had squeezed them shut.  
  
His therapist had given him a long list of body awareness techniques. Maybe one of those might help? He lay on his back, concentrating on feeling the mattress beneath him. Inhale... Hold... Exhale... Inhale... Hold, feel the tension in his shoulders start to seep away... Relax, exhale... His breathing slowed down, and he could feel sleep approaching. His mind started to wander. Sherlock's hands around his waist, moving him brusquely to the side when he was blocking the view of the victim. The drizzle on his face when he was running. Relax, exhale... Inhale... Hold... Sherlock's hand, held up as a signal to stop, the elegant lines of his radial fossa visible even in the shadows.  
  
The more he tried to relax, the more his half-hard cock bothered him. There really was no other way to sleep. He was, after all, a man of habit. With a noise somewhere between a grunt and a sigh, he grabbed himself with his left hand and started pumping, eager to get it over with. He'd lost one battle, but dammit, he wasn't going to think about Sherlock now. Biting down on his lower lip to keep quiet, he steeled himself and started thinking about Beatrice's full breasts, her curvy legs, her dainty feet in high heels. He could feel his pulse pounding in his ears. So close now. He imagined pressing up against her back, licking her long, pale neck. "Fuck!" He whimpered the curse as he came, because that neck had not been hers.  
  
He was so fucked. This could never end well.  
  


***

  
  
The Thursday morning dawned, grey and cold like last night. John's shoulder ached, and the new bruises along his right side made a painful counterpoint. A cup of tea would make everything better, and with a bit of luck, Sherlock would not mention anything about last night. He stiffly descended the stairs to the living room, holding on to the banister.  
  
The only reason he knew Sherlock had moved since last night was that he had changed out of his suit into his dressing gown and pyjama bottoms. "Morning," John said. He'd learned long ago not to get into an argument about whether or not it was a good morning. "Tea?"  
  
"Please." It seems he was lucky after all. John pottered around in the kitchen, putting the kettle on and trying to find some carbs to start the day. The toast had gone mouldy, and cereal was out of the question since the milk had gone off, but the digestive biscuits were fine. He cleared the worst of the rubbish off the small table and put their mugs and plates down. They ate in silence, John reading the morning paper and Sherlock texting. After the second cuppa, he glanced at his flatmate. Sherlock smirked and John rolled his eyes in response. "I told you the common reaction is not that I'm amazing."  
  
"Piss off." The tone of his own voice surprised him. He'd have at least expected some bitterness, but he sounded warm and amused. Laughter started bubbling up inside him, and Sherlock joined in with him just a moment after the first guffaw.  
  
Five minutes later, they wheezed and gasped for breath. John rose and bagged a corner of the sofa before Sherlock had the time to hog all of it. "Jeremy Kyle or Judge Judy?"  
  
"Nothing at the surgery today, then?" At his nod, Sherlock chose Judge Judy. "I'm only 95% accurate about Americans. Never quite got the hang of the rural poor." John could feel a slim hand on his shoulder, and tilted his head up. Sherlock's look was serious and intense. "John..." He made an answering noise. "It’s fine. It's all fine." The hand on his shoulder squeezed, and was gone.


End file.
